The Poems of William Watson Part 1

The Poems of William Watson.

by William Watson.

PRELUDE

The mighty poets from their flowing store Dispense like casual alms the careless ore; Through throngs of men their lonely way they go, Let fall their costly thoughts, nor seem to know.-- Not mine the rich and showering hand, that strews The facile largess of a stintless Muse.

A fitful presence, seldom tarrying long, Capriciously she touches me to song-- Then leaves me to lament her flight in vain, And wonder will she ever come again.

AUTUMN

Thou burden of all songs the earth hath sung, Thou retrospect in Time's reverted eyes, Thou metaphor of everything that dies, That dies ill-starred, or dies beloved and young And therefore blest and wise,-- O be less beautiful, or be less brief, Thou tragic splendour, strange, and full of fear!

In vain her pageant shall the Summer rear?

At thy mute signal, leaf by golden leaf, Crumbles the gorgeous year.

Ah, ghostly as remembered mirth, the tale Of Summer's bloom, the legend of the Spring!

And thou, too, flutterest an impatient wing, Thou presence yet more fugitive and frail, Thou most unbodied thing, Whose very being is thy going hence, And pa.s.sage and departure all thy theme; Whose life doth still a splendid dying seem, And thou at height of thy magnificence A figment and a dream.

Stilled is the virgin rapture that was June, And cold is August's panting heart of fire; And in the storm-dismantled forest-choir For thine own elegy thy winds attune Their wild and wizard lyre: And poignant grows the charm of thy decay, The pathos of thy beauty, and the sting, Thou parable of greatness vanis.h.i.+ng!

For me, thy woods of gold and skies of grey With speech fantastic ring.

For me, to dreams resigned, there come and go, 'Twixt mountains draped and hooded night and morn, Elusive notes in wandering wafture borne, From undiscoverable lips that blow An immaterial horn; And spectral seem thy winter-boding trees, Thy ruinous bowers and drifted foliage wet-- Past and Future in sad bridal met, O voice of everything that perishes, And soul of all regret!

WORLD-STRANGENESS

Strange the world about me lies, Never yet familiar grown-- Still disturbs me with surprise, Haunts me like a face half known.

In this house with starry dome, Floored with gemlike plains and seas, Shall I never feel at home, Never wholly be at ease?

On from room to room I stray, Yet my Host can ne'er espy, And I know not to this day Whether guest or captive I.

So, between the starry dome And the floor of plains and seas, I have never felt at home, Never wholly been at ease.

"WHEN BIRDS WERE SONGLESS"

When birds were songless on the bough I heard thee sing.

The world was full of winter, thou Wert full of spring.

To-day the world's heart feels anew The vernal thrill, And thine beneath the rueful yew Is wintry chill.

THE MOCK SELF

Few friends are mine, though many wights there be Who, meeting oft a phantasm that makes claim To be myself, and hath my face and name, And whose thin fraud I wink at privily, Account this light impostor very me.

What boots it undeceive them, and proclaim Myself myself, and whelm this cheat with shame?

I care not, so he leave my true self free, Impose not on me also; but alas!

I too, at fault, bewildered, sometimes take Him for myself, and far from mine own sight, Torpid, indifferent, doth mine own self pa.s.s; And yet anon leaps suddenly awake, And spurns the gibbering mime into the night.

"THY VOICE FROM INMOST DREAMLAND CALLS"

Thy voice from inmost dreamland calls; The wastes of sleep thou makest fair; Bright o'er the ridge of darkness falls The cataract of thy hair.

The morn renews its golden birth: Thou with the vanquished night dost fade; And leav'st the ponderable earth Less real than thy shade.

IN LALEHAM CHURCHYARD

(AUGUST 18, 1890)

'Twas at this season, year by year, The singer who lies songless here Was wont to woo a less austere, Less deep repose, Where Rotha to Winandermere Unresting flows,--

Flows through a land where torrents call To far-off torrents as they fall, And mountains in their cloudy pall Keep ghostly state, And Nature makes majestical Man's lowliest fate.

There, 'mid the August glow, still came He of the twice-ill.u.s.trious name, The loud impertinence of fame Not loth to flee-- Not loth with brooks and fells to claim Fraternity.

Linked with his happy youthful lot, Is Loughrigg, then, at last forgot?

Nor silent peak nor dalesman's cot Looks on his grave.

Lulled by the Thames he sleeps, and not By Rotha's wave.

'Tis fittest thus! for though with skill He sang of beck and tarn and ghyll, The deep, authentic mountain-thrill Ne'er shook his page!

Somewhat of worldling mingled still With bard and sage.

And 'twere less meet for him to lie Guarded by summits lone and high That traffic with the eternal sky And hear, unawed, The everlasting fingers ply The loom of G.o.d,

Than, in this hamlet of the plain, A less sublime repose to gain, Where Nature, genial and urbane, To man defers, Yielding to us the right to reign, Which yet is hers.

And nigh to where his bones abide, The Thames with its unruffled tide Seems like his genius typified,-- Its strength, its grace, Its lucid gleam, its sober pride, Its tranquil pace.

But ah! not his the eventual fate Which doth the journeying wave await-- Doomed to resign its limpid state And quickly grow Turbid as pa.s.sion, dark as hate, And wide as woe.

Rather, it may be, over-much He shunned the common stain and s.m.u.tch, From soilure of ign.o.ble touch Too grandly free, Too loftily secure in such Cold purity.

But he preserved from chance control The fortress of his 'stablisht soul; In all things sought to see the Whole; Brooked no disguise; And set his heart upon the goal, Not on the prize.

With those Elect he shall survive Who seem not to compete or strive, Yet with the foremost still arrive, Prevailing still: Spirits with whom the stars connive To work their will.

And ye, the baffled many, who, Dejected, from afar off view The easily victorious few Of calm renown,-- Have ye not your sad glory too, And mournful crown?

Great is the facile conqueror; Yet haply he, who, wounded sore, Breathless, unhorsed, all covered o'er With blood and sweat, Sinks foiled, but fighting evermore,-- Is greater yet.